


it was a seminal plan

by maih_em



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, impromptu not-date in the park, set early in series 1, this is basically just a study in peter overthinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maih_em/pseuds/maih_em
Summary: “Careful, or I’ll think you want to get me drunk. Although if you do, you’re going to need to buy me something a bit stronger than this.”“Is that a formal request?” Morse mused.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	it was a seminal plan

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by one time when I was sitting on the beach w some friends one night and was being flirted with but not realising because I was dumb and drunk and not straight.

A new face around the station wasn’t anything special. PCs came and went all the time as promotions dragged them away to pastures new. Working in CID was hardly the friendliest of professions; more often than not, people simply moved on.

But something about the way Morse looked when he sat at his desk for the first time, the barcode shadow of the window shutters breaking up his face into strips of light and dark, felt different to the other people Peter had worked with.

It was like he just _fitted_ here. Like there had been a gaping hole in the fabric of Cowley nick since it was built and that he was the only one who could plug it.

Not that Peter had really been paying any attention to it anyway.

Morse wasn’t exactly afraid of stepping on any toes, either. Though he was quiet and odd and didn’t turn in the same social circles that most officers did, he had a bigger presence than everyone else. If he was around, you knew it. Or Jakes did, at least.

He solved the cases, anyway. He did what he had to do, which was his _job_ , and everything else wasn’t worth dwelling on. He’d heard that enough from Thursday over the past few weeks; every quip he threw Morse’s way was met with a disapproving glance from the Inspector, who appeared to have taken the new constable under his wing without hesitation.

Anyway.

None of this mattered because Peter wasn’t thinking about it at all.

It was somewhere between late afternoon and early evening (because in summer you can never differentiate between the two) so Morse was the last thing on his mind. He had spent the time since finishing work that day making himself dinner and attempting to switch off the detective side of his brain, but realised he was distinctly lacking in alcohol.

At first, he set off for the pub, but something about that didn’t seem right today. He wasn’t in the mood for socialising, really, so he instead made his way to a corner shop and picked up a six pack of lager and then took the long route back to his flat through the park.

That was where he encountered Morse, walking in the same direction as him.

And, for some reason, though the thought of sitting in the pub with his normal crowd was the last thing he wanted tonight, it was as easy as breathing to fall into step and into conversation with the constable.

“You just got out of work?”

The other man nodded. “I wanted to read up some of the old files on that case Thursday said might be linked to yesterday’s burglary.”

“Oh, putting in the extra hours, eh? Course you are.”

Morse gave him a confused look and rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m thorough doesn’t mean I’m trying to steal your thunder or anything.”

“What?”

“I get it, you’re jealous about the whole bagman thing. It’s quite obvious.”

Spluttering, and hoping the glow of the sun was red enough to conceal his blush. “Oh, sod off. I’m not jealous. Don’t want to be a bloody bagman, anyway, following Thursday around day in and day out.”

“Alright then.” There was a laugh, one he struggled to imagine belonging to Morse. Morse didn’t seem the laughing sort. “Where are you actually heading?” he added.

Peter couldn’t remember exactly when he stopped walking in the direction of home, and instead in whatever direction Morse was going. “I… uh, nowhere in particular. Just fancied some fresh air.”

“Me too. D’you want to sit?” He gestured to the grass around them, where the land dipped down from the path into an expanse of sun-bathed space. There were a few lingering groups spread out in the area, soaking up the last of the day’s sun before it got dark, and the low hum of distant chatter _was_ rather enticing.

“What, on the ground?”

Morse shrugged like it seemed completely normal to him. Like Peter was the weird one in this situation, and the confidence with which he did this was convincing enough that Peter followed him down the bank until they were a suitable distance from the path, and lay his coat out to sit on.

Instinctively, he took one of the bottles from their cardboard crate and pressed it into Morse’s hand, before taking one for himself. He plucked out the bottle opener that he kept in his wallet and leant over Morse to hook it under the cap and flick it upwards.

“Thanks.” He tapped his bottle lightly against Peter’s, the clink of glass on glass such a harsh sound compared to the blurred softness of everything else around them.

After a while, Peter mumbled, “you’re alright, you know?”. The words came out of his mouth before he had the chance to stop them.

“Hmm?”

“You’re alright. I know I might always have it in for you at work, but you seem a decent bloke. And I’m definitely not jealous of you.”

“Are you drunk?”

“On one mouthful of lager? I hope not,” Peter chuckled. “Why?”

“Being nice to me, and all. It’s not very in character.”

Peter shrugged this off with a laugh because he didn’t know how else to respond. “Maybe I just wanna be nice to you,” he finally blurted out, but regretted it as soon as it had left his lips, so he added, “or maybe I’m trying to lull you into a false sense of security so I can… I don’t know, spy on you or something.”

“Are you absolutely sure this is the first drink you’ve had today?”

“Careful, or I’ll think you _want_ to get me drunk. Although if you do, you’re going to need to buy me something a bit stronger than this.”

“Is that a formal request?” Morse mused.

“Okay. Why not.”

A pause. “Alright then.”

He wasn’t really sure what that meant until he felt a cold hand nudge his own arm out of the way as Morse leant towards him, inclining his head upwards to press their lips together.

It was then that Peter realised he’d been flirting pretty much from the beginning of their conversation. And it had been a joke, he was sure of that, because why the hell would he want to flirt with Morse? But then with that mouth on his it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

He parted his lips ever so slightly at Morse’s advances. That was probably what snapped him out of it, actually, that heat of Morse’s tongue against his skin. Peter lurched back suddenly with a sharp intake of breath.

_Shit._

Okay.

Morse looked confused, embarrassed and annoyed all at once, but he didn’t leave, and Peter didn’t want to leave either, so they both sat next to each other in silence, still close enough that their legs could brush but nothing more. Peter took a swig from his bottle, emptying it.

It seemed like they were the only ones left in this part of the park, thank God, or they would have worse to deal with than a little awkwardness.

Though the light was rapidly disappearing below the trees, the air still held much of the day’s warmth. It was comfortable, soft, welcoming, the kind of weather that makes the air feel like it’s wrapping you up.

Morse shrugging off his blazer and rolling up his shirtsleeves, lying back onto the grass with his arms behind his head, was a sight that would stay with Peter for a long time. It should probably be illegal; it was indecent stretching out like that with his shirt pulling up and exposing a sliver of skin that made Peter shudder.

It felt like it was something he shouldn’t be allowed to see. There was the Morse he worked with, the one who wore a jacket even on the hottest of days, and buttoned his shirt right up to the top no matter how much it made him sweat, but then there was _this Morse_. Off-duty Morse with no tie and his top button undone, who had bloody _freckles_ on his forearms and who smiled and shared a drink with him after work (even though he’d made a point in the past about how much he hated lager) and kissed him with little hesitation.

He didn’t deserve this version of Morse, but he suspected it was the kind of thing he could easily get addicted to.

Peter felt out of place sitting up when Morse was lying down beside him, so he reclined and let the grass cushion his head. The ground below him was beginning to cool, but no dew had condensed on it just yet, so it was largely comfortable.

Their bodies were aligned, parallel to each other with arms pressed close enough that Peter could feel his warmth through the stiff cotton of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean-” Morse’s voice was shakier now, all tense and full of worry. He cut himself off before he had a chance to finish.

“What?”

“I’m- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

Peter wanted to put a stop to that train of thought right there, because the last thing he wanted was to have made Morse feel guilty, but every time he found the words to say it they crumbled on his tongue.

 _Fuck this_ , he thought, and tipped his head sideways so that it was resting on Morse’s shoulder, hoping that would be enough to get his point across.

What was his point, anyway? He’d lost track of what he wanted a long time ago. (That was a lie. He wanted Morse, but he felt like he’d already mucked that up.)

If Peter closed his eyes and ignored the blades of grass tickling the back of his neck, it almost felt like they were in bed together. Now _that_ was a dangerous thought.

After that, it was easy enough to let his mind drift. It never strayed too far from the topic of Morse though, because that was impossible with the two of them lying so close together, especially when the constable faked a yawn, stretching his hands up and using the movement as an excuse to wrap one arm around Peter and pull him in closer.

The distant sound of chatter pulled him out of the haze. Morse heard too, and they both reacted at the same time, sitting up and cursing quietly, trying to look a little more normal as a small gaggle of people wandered by down the path about twenty yards away from them.

They were drunk (it _was_ a Friday night after all) and didn’t bat an eyelid at the two men sitting in complete silence in the middle of the lawn while it was pretty much pitch dark.

Once the group were gone, Peter turned back to Morse, their gaze meeting for the first time in a while, though it wasn’t quite the same now there was no sunlight to glow in those blue eyes.

It was enough to know that they were there though, even in the darkness when they were no more than a faint shimmer of the little light that was reaching them. Enough that Peter mirrored what Morse had done earlier, twisting so that he could face him, laying one hand flat on the side of Morse’s face, and guiding it down to meet his own.

There was a bit more weight in it this time, now Peter had stopped pretending that he didn’t know what he wanted, but the way their lips moved together was as gentle and unhurried as before. He looped an arm behind Morse’s neck to pull him in closer, letting their bodies align as they sunk back down onto the grass.

The bit of skin exposed by Morse’s open collar was infinitely more compelling now; it would be so easy to dip his head and leave wet bruises there for only Morse to see, but he felt like that gesture wouldn’t be appreciated by the morning. And in any case, Morse’s mouth was distracting enough, lips parting and eager and reeling him in.

Somewhere between the second and third kiss, Peter realised he wanted to go home with Morse.

He probably wouldn’t. He _couldn’t_. He’d need a fresh shirt the next morning, and flings with colleagues were off limits.

But damn it did he want to.

His train of thought was derailed when Morse moved from his lips to kissing down his jaw; he couldn’t help but let out the kind of noise his more sensible self might be ashamed of.

Morse laughed at this, and it was _that laugh_ again. The one that Morse would never let him hear under normal circumstances.

How on Earth did he get here? One minute he was popping out to top up his drinks cupboard, and the next he was huddled up on the grass with the very colleague that had been getting on his nerves all week. One of Morse’s arms was wrapped around him, and Peter’s head rested against his chest so that Morse’s heartbeat was all he could hear.

His fingers were getting cold now, so he reached for a cigarette and lit it, sitting up so as not to blow smoke right into Morse’s face. He felt very watched as he did this, with those eyes on him the whole time. A hand reached out to play with his tie, and he could tell Morse was smiling even if it was hard to see in the low light.

Just as he was about to take another drag, the cigarette was plucked right from his lips and stolen by Morse, who promptly blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. There was something hypnotic in watching Morse smoke, and watching his hands in general, especially now he knew how they felt brushing across his skin.

“I should probably head home. Work tomorrow,” Morse said, though he sounded like he regretted having to leave.

“Yeah. Course.” Peter gathered himself up, plucking the coat he’d been lying on from the ground and realising quite how damp it had become from the earth below it. He’d probably find smudges of mud on it tomorrow and spend the morning trying to rinse them off.

Part of him wanted to kiss Morse again, but he suspected bitterly that the time had passed, so he simply walked with him through the park in silence until their paths diverged to their respective flats. He watched Morse recede into the distance, hoping for one final glimpse of that bloody addictive smile.

He got his wish; just for a moment, Morse turned back to meet his eyes, sending a jolt of some unidentifiable feeling right through Peter’s body.

And, as he turned towards home, he realised that the bastard had never given his cigarette back.

**Author's Note:**

> (Title from my only worry by Arthur Sharpe bc it’s a crying over the Flowers soundtrack kind of day
> 
> This was intended to be a quick little exercise to get some of the morse/jakes fluff out of my system bc it keeps distracting me from another thing i'm writing with, shock horror, an actual plot. But I've been working on this literally all day because i'm the slowest writer known to man and kept getting distracted by sad playlists.
> 
> Anyway. Hope u liked this x


End file.
